THE ENTERTAINER

The first thing that hit you was the air freshener.

David Anderson stepped into the grace-and-favour apartment the Alliance embassy had "gifted" him, and instantly hated the place. Oh, the interior design was flawless – plenty of light and air and every surface pristine.

But there was the smell. Whoever had picked the air freshener for the place had gone with a floral synthetic. The odour had a saccharine edge and Anderson could already feel the headache coming.

At least it's a bunk. Anderson threw his kit bag onto the counter in the open-plan kitchen. He'd already walked the full length of an officer's cabin on most Alliance ships, just to make a cup of tea.

Except Anderson didn't have any tea.

Sitting on the couch an hour later, with the whisky bottle already a quarter empty, Anderson watched the neon life of the Silversun Strip ripple past his window. If I were younger, would I go out and join the fun?

Probably not. David Anderson had been a serious young man and now he was a serious old one. A serious old man in an empty apartment. With Commander Shepard in charge of SSV Normandy, Donnel Udina had shanghaied Anderson into the office of the naval attaché. Someone had to sit and nod sagely while clapped-out turian martinets rambled on about task forces and logistics and inter-service standardisation.

And apart from that, what did old sailors actually do? Slowly fade away? Accumulate in bars like dust bunnies to gripe about politics and uppity junior officers?

Anderson felt himself solidifying. Now, he was one of those mighty prehistoric lizards, getting stiffer and weaker as the skies filled with dust and the wind got unseasonably cold. By the time they dug him out of this tar pit, he'd be as ornamental as the abstract piles of aluminium that passed for interplanetary art upstairs.

Or that piano, in the corner.

ONE MONTH LATER

Anderson opened the doors and Udina strode in ahead of him, as though he owned the place. Or perhaps more accurately, as though it was just another office.

"Is there a comms terminal in here, Anderson? I have a couple of contacts on Arcturus I need to update after... what we just experienced. Secure channels, you know."

Anderson was suddenly acutely aware of how much the apartment had started to feel like a home, in its oversized, sterile way. But Udina didn't appear to notice the unwashed crockery and glass spread across the kitchen counter. He was already rooting around toward the rear of the apartment.

"That's not a problem, Ambassador. In the small room to the left. Can I... get you a drink?"

That was what hosts offered, surely?

"Excellent. Just coffee for me, thank you. We have plenty to get through."

Udina swept off to the back room, and Anderson let the percolator do its business. He reached for the whisky bottle, thought about his... guest... in the next room,and wavered.

"Anderson, cue up the Sixth Fleet rotation. The naval budget committee needs your comments on attrition in crew performance. Transmitting in ten minutes."

He stopped wavering and poured himself a generous slug. Udina returned to the kitchen, grabbed his coffee, took a swig and glanced at Anderson's glass.

"It's going to be a long night, Anderson. Pace yourself."

"I don't see what we have to discuss," said Anderson. "The hanar made their case for participation in the Citadel Fleet. We have three weeks to come up with a rebuttal. Honestly, I agree with Commodore Alunia, it takes the pressure off us and the turians."

"Of course Alunia says that," Udina shot back. "The Asari Republics voted through a round of military cuts last week, having previously promised to maintain an adequate defensive posture around the Citadel. She has to make up the numbers somehow. As for our tentacled friends in the Illuminated Primacy..."

"Ambassador. Donnel. Can this wait?" Anderson settled himself on a stool by the kitchen worktop, propping his head up on his fist. "We have three weeks. I'm at home. I'm happy to discuss this in the morning."

Udina looked genuinely confused for a moment. His eyes lost their gleaming intensity and assumed the glazed look Anderson usually associated with diplomatic receptions.

"Of... course. David. You need to relax. I apologise."

Udina was a strange guest. Anderson had known officers display this restless, neurotic behaviour on campaign, but every man had a breaking point. Workaholics in the Alliance military either learned to control their itchy trigger fingers, or they burned out and ended up flying a desk within a couple of years.

Like I did, Anderson mused.

"Nice décor," said Udina, as he finally slowed down enough to notice the apartment around him. "I argued against buying up properties like this, you know. Wasted resources. But the Secretary-General and members of Parliament insisted on having a few 'safe houses' set up for when they needed somewhere quiet and exclusive to murder a hooker or two."

Anderson stared at him.

"That was a joke," said Udina."I mean, just look at this place. An idiot's idea of sophistication."

Anderson poured himself another finger of whisky. So those are my options. A fossil in a uniform propping doors open, or turn into this guy.

He didn't notice Udina sitting at the piano until the Alliance ambassador snapped the fallboard open and began to pound the keys.

Anderson slammed down his glass and lurched forward. That's it, Donnel, you come to my apartment, you don't get to screw around with my furniture.

Except Udina wasn't screwing around. Instead, the apartment lit up with a few bars of rolling, gentle chamber music. A tune written when mankind was still dreaming of flight, let alone space travel. Udina's seeming harshness with the keys was just impatient confidence. Anderson had heard this kind of music many times... recorded. But for all his galactic experience, he'd never heard it live.

Udina didn't finish the song. He flexed his fingers and the beautiful sound died. Immediately, he was up and pacing again.

"See what I mean, Anderson? These things tune themselves, you know. They run diagnostics every few minutes, like starships. Any idea how much it cost?"

Anderson walked over to the piano, his anger gone, and gently closed the fallboard.

"I mean, what a waste!" said Udina.

ONE YEAR LATER

Kahlee Sanders stepped out of the shower early, wrapping herself in a towel and leaving wet footprints on Anderson's pristine carpet. The rhythm was a little slow, and the melody came through with the sharp precision of an uncomfortable player, but...

Anderson was intent on his task. When Sanders arrived in the apartment for the first time, she'd seen the practically-untouched furnishings and assumed that the slimline piano in the corner, with its ebony gloss finish, was some diplomat's stupendously expensive idea of an ornament.

Shirtless, Anderson hammered at the piano keys, picking out a jaunty tune Sanders couldn't quite place. His head was hunkered down, brow furrowed over the vid-screen of notes in front of him.

"I never imagined you as one for classical music, David," said Sanders. "What is that, Beethoven?"

Sanders immediately regretted it. Anderson started, his concentration lost, and he mashed the keys clumsily as half-developed muscle memory gave way to panic. He gave a little awkward 'harrumph' that could have been a laugh or a sigh and Kahlee felt even worse.

"Actually, it's Joplin," said Anderson. "I, uh... have a lot of time on my hands. When you're not here, I mean."

"I guess I should have guessed." said Sanders. "Nothing in your life is for show, is it?"

"Oh, this came with the apartment. I didn't even look at it at first."

"What changed your mind?"

"It's funny," said Anderson. "I guess it was loyalty. One superfluous relic to another. Overfed, overpaid and over here."

Sanders didn't touch that one.

"Would you play again?" she asked. "I'm sorry I startled you. I'd love to hear some more."

Anderson paused for a moment, then looked at Sanders almost wistfully.

"Maybe another time. I made a full English, if you're ready."

By the time Sanders had dried off, the mass of sausage, bacon and eggs had almost gone cold. They ate, as usual, in silence.

Sanders noticed something else that morning. For the first time since the galaxy had heard about Commander Shepard's death, Anderson wasn't drinking anything stronger than coffee.

THREE YEARS LATER

Anderson blinked in the red glow of the emergency lights. This far underground, the deafening bombardment unleashed on London by the Reapers just sounded like an unseasonably violent thunderstorm.

A thunderstorm which, every so often, sent a shower of ancient concrete dust onto the heads of Anderson and his guerillas.

For weeks now, they had crawled restlessly through the lattice of tunnels, driven from pillar to post by floods, cave-ins, or the discovery of one of their ragged camps by a particularly efficient Reaper patrol. For weeks now, that constant thunder was the only accompaniment to the muttered orders, the click of weapons, and the little human sounds of eating or sleeping or having a bowel movement.

The resistance was depressed. Since the Reapers had started to concentrate the civilian population, there were far fewer recruits to fill the ranks when one of Anderson's troops was lost in the tunnels... or worse, had to be left behind.

And now, the stakes were the highest since the Reaper invasion. Shepard was coming, with the united forces of the galaxy to try and smash the Reapers in a single, decisive battle, and Anderson just wanted to make sure this rag-tag troupe lived long enough to play their part.

Anderson was taking point, the spotlight on his rifle making a giant's shadow out of every loose brick on the floor of the tunnel. Despite the lack of water, the constant ache of his muscles and the sleeping shifts so disturbed they were essentially ceremonial, Anderson felt young again. Here, every day was an insurmountable challenge. Here, just being alive at the end of the day made you a hero.

"Oy. Put that light out," said a voice out of the darkness of the tunnel ahead.

Anderson was too tired to jump out of his skin, and too used to this kind of midnight tryst to fire blind, so he just stopped, motioned the guerillas behind to halt, and trusted to dumb luck that this wasn't some dreadful new Reaper trick that allowed them to perfectly mimic the voice of Major Coats.

Coats' cell had set up shop in a large underground storeroom, perhaps built to service the kitchen of a hotel or busy restaurant closer to the surface. There wasn't much food left in the larder, but Coats' men had drilled into the plumbing and were sucking out a decent volume of water.

"God knows how long it's been standing in the pipes for, but it's probably safe enough," said Coats, quaffing a canteen of the cloudy water.

"Well, I guess we could spend all night talking about the career aspirations of beggars and choosers," said Anderson. "We need to talk about Operation Hedgehog."

Coats gave a grin that was half a wince, and projected a map of the tunnel system from his omni-tool.

"There's a Reaper internment camp and... processing facility... by Earl's Court. You wanted a good spot to create a diversionary attack and if you ask me, that's it. We've already set up a few demolition charges which should box in the first wave of reinforcements. I reckon we've only got a narrow time window before the Reapers find them, though."

"Excellent work, Major," said Anderson. "But I'm afraid we'll have to stretch that window. The missiles from Bruges aren't on the barges yet, and the Docklands commander has asked for another 24 hours to get them loaded up. There's been increased activity in the sector since the enemy realised the DLR was running again and decided to foreclose the tunnels."

"We're stuffed for transport, then."

"For the foreseeable future."

"Fantastic," said Coats. "Well, this is the staging area, so here we stay. We don't have time or a decent route to move the team again, and if we use the prepared retreat, we can't launch the diversionary attack."

"Which means we're sitting ducks if the Reapers send a patrol down this tunnel," said Anderson.

"There's the beggar-chooser dichotomy again," Coats growled.

"It's fine," said Anderson. "My troops just need a few hours of shut-eye."

But as Anderson watched the men and women of the resistance hunker down, wrapping themselves in the ragged blankets that would likely be their funeral shrouds, he realised they'd need a lot more than that.

Anderson was jolted awake by a dirt-streaked civilian volunteer (Norman? Gordon.) violently shaking his arm. He said nothing, but that was just training and bitter experience. You needed to wake your team silently if possible – because the enemy has ears, everywhere, always.

Anderson felt his heart pounding fit to explode, and he immediately grabbed for his rifle. Is this it? Did they find us? Anderson felt his eyes bulge out, on the edge of panic, but he held his tongue. Gordon shook his head, answering the obvious question... but then, why did you wake me?

Gordon led Anderson to one corner of the store-room, where some of the more restless guerillas had been quietly moving rubble away from a blocked doorway.

The pitch-black corridor they had revealed led to a musty but otherwise perfectly preserved saloon bar, decked out in the faux-historical Art Deco style which never seemed to go out of fashion on Earth. In the bar stood Coats and one of the other civilians. As Anderson reached them he saw the reason for secrecy.

Coats' shaded flashlight glittered over an array of bottles of all shapes and sizes, exotic spirits and liquors from across the galaxy, as well as a wide array of Earth produce which would have cost a king's ransom on the Citadel.

Anderson didn't have to say a word to see the problem. This kind of stash was mana from heaven for the resistance. And if they accepted the gift, they could kiss goodbye to the diversion at Earl's Court or the shipment from Bruges. Trying to snatch a drink from the lips of an exhausted and miserable soldier was the perfect way for even the most beloved of officers to get himself fragged.

Coats shook his head with the weary resignation of a man whose neck could only support one more millstone.

A cursory search of the rest of the saloon revealed booths with leather seating, a few valueless abstract paintings...

And a rostrum, with a bulky, irregular shape veiled with a dusty velvet cover.

By the time Anderson had found a stool of about the right height behind the bar, they had a plan.

The clinking of glass on glass woke the troops, as they knew it would.

Gordon waved frantically from the door, signalling that the first of the sleeping guerillas had been jarred awake. Coats and the night watch accelerated their efforts to conceal the remaining bottles in the deeper shadows. The only light in the room was the sentries' spotlight, and now it was splashed all over Anderson and the shining beech housing of the piano. As he had done so many times in his career, Anderson waited until the last possible moment before firing the first salvo.

The first piece was written for ensemble, with very different instruments, and Anderson's baritone wasn't ideal for the vocals, but it did the job. He hammered out the opening and began to sing the classical American ballad about a boy from Louisiana who played his guitar by the railway. And as his hands danced over the keys, the tune rocking back and forth, he could tell from the murmurs and shuffling behind him that even here, the piano was working its magic.

No doubt the whole thing was more jarring than the alarm of a Reaper attack would have been. Good. We need them on their toes.

They stood dumbfounded as Anderson rippled his hand down the keys to signal the end of the song. Silence fell. Anderson listened out for Coats and heard nothing. Hairs rising on the back of his neck, Anderson looked around at his troops with the placid, indulgent expression he reserved for well turned-out Navy ratings on parade.

Gordon, brushing lank hair out of his eyes, began to applaud . The remaining guerillas, the old instincts of civilisation kicking in like military training, joined in, their clapping ragged and uncertain. Anderson's stomach turned a somersault, and nausea rushed over him. He didn't dare rise to take a bow, instead contenting himself with a stiff nod. Of course, I meant to do that.

Then the applause dropped as Major Coats stepped out into the spotlight next to Anderson. Coats had a mad look in his eyes. Hand twitching next his sidearm, Anderson suspected that the resistance commander was on the razor's edge of mutiny – who can blame him, with an idea this crazy – but Coats seemed to regain control of himself and stood at ease.

"Admiral Anderson will be playing a brief concert to keep up morale," said Coats. "Our upcoming operation has been delayed by a few hours, so take this time to relax and let off some steam."

Anderson met Coats' gaze, and saw the baleful light leave it, to be replaced with a spark of mischief.

"The Admiral will also be taking requests," said Coats.

And I can't say no. Damn you, Coats.

"That's right," said Anderson. "But you might need to hum the melody before I recognise a song."

Anderson had an unerring instinct for how to knock his subordinates off-balance. Most of the resistance in London were native to the area, and a few, like Coats, had served in the local armed forces before the Reaper attack. When Anderson played the opening bar of God Save the King, therefore, Coats' grin clamped shut and his heels slid together with a click.

It wasn't the best rendition of a national anthem, but the surrealism of the whole thing was clearly getting to the guerillas and every one of them joined in, dry throats or not. When voices and piano died away on the final note, The troops began to cluster in booths, settle onto bar stools or just fetch their sleeping kit and collapse on the floor.

Anderson wasted no time and started working through a set of the chirpy ragtime tunes he had learned when he first acquired the piano for his old apartment. Heads nodded, feet tapped, and the same chapped lips which Anderson had seen twisted with silent anxiety and pain for days on end began to talk animatedly about music, concerts, and life Before The War. They were hooked now.

Coats, teeth grinding, faded into the shadows. Anderson sincerely hoped he'd sealed away the drink safely, but no doubt he had to post another sentry. Not that it matters, Anderson mused. If we'd had an open bar, there would have been even more noise, and all of it a lot uglier.

Anderson wrapped up the tune he was playing, and tried to pick out one request from the babble of voices and the rush of applause which followed. He could hardly make out a word, but he knew the sound.

Humanity.

People behaved differently at public events. The only public event Anderson had attended for a long time was the war. And in this war, with no front line, no rest, and no hope of victory, he had almost forgotten what camaraderie looked like.

Living underground, hungry and thirsty, watching one brave man or woman die after another, with no way to strike back at the enemy or even get a look at the sky, Earth's resistance forces had become infected with fatalism. Now there was a public event outside the war, Anderson could finally see how bad it had become.

Every resistance fighter had gone back to their kit and brought out some kind of personal treasure to share with the rest of the group. It was amazing what could be squirrelled away in packs and pockets. Pouches of tobacco or marijuana, bars of chocolate, even a yellowed paper storybook which the owner insisted was not available on the extranet. The troops passed these luxuries around, and Anderson could see them coming back to themselves, smiling and laughing as they might have in days gone by.

Best of all, Anderson was not the only warrior with a taste for classical music. His fingers starting to get a little sore from the "brief" recital, a young woman offered to take over from Anderson for a while. As it turned out, she was skilled in a rather different tradition than Anderson had learned and treated the soldiers to a smooth, soulful European concerto from the eighteenth or nineteenth century.

Quite a number of troops had kept back a reserve of coffee or tea, and once these were pooled Anderson helped rig up a heater and some metal vessels for brewing. And with refreshments on the way, the whole party settled in for the long haul.

One performance led to another. A woman with white hair performed what was, apparently, a flawless imitation of a 21st -century singer named Amy Winehouse. Another man played heart-rending tunes on a mouth organ. A brother and sister kept the party going for a full hour telling jokes, and Anderson got a laugh himself when word got out that the Alliance brass hat with the indeterminate accent had actually been born a stone's throw away in Brixton.

Then it was Coats' turn. The Major was finally cajoled into singing one of the old tunes which was passed down from generation to generation: "In the mess hall after a long day of standing in the rain with a dead bear on my head". The song was an absurd music-hall story of an Irishman visiting London, but Anderson realised how it had become the anthem for a generation of soldiers three centuries past, because truly, it was about being homesick.

Around 0330hrs, something incredible happened. By popular demand, Anderson had stepped back up to the piano, and with the assistance of some guerillas with considerably more flexible voices, began to play through a set of songs by the classical orchestra known as the Jackson Five. Most of the troops were on their feet, dancing with heartfelt imprecision.

They were two songs into the set, and the room again faded to muttering and laughter, when Anderson realised that the hellish percussion of Reaper activity on the surface had faded to silence. One by one, guerillas went quiet and stared at the concrete ceiling. No explosions, no crash and tear of Cyclopean demolitions.

Anderson waited with bated breath, waiting for doom to come with a flash of red light and the screech of a siren.

It didn't.

"Well, I'll be damned," said Coats, around a cigarette. "We bloody won."

The resistance cheered. Anderson and the vocalists began once again and led all the guerillas through the next song, the stamp of their feet shaking the floor. When the thunder of Reaper operations re-started a few minutes later, knocking clouds of dust from the ceiling, nobody noticed.

Nobody noticed the alcoholic delights hidden behind a wall of rubble in the stairway to the surface, either.

Subject: David Anderson

Destination:

Lieutenant Commander Kahlee Sanders

Grissom Academy

Petra Nebula

Vetus

Source:

Major NFC Coats PS DCM

75th Atmospheric Assault Bde

Alliance Marine Corps

Coldstream Guards (former)

Message Begins:

Dear LCDR Sanders,

I write with reference to Admiral David Anderson, with whom I served for a brief time in the London theatre of operations during the occupation of Earth. Aware as I am of your personal connection with the Admiral, I offer my condolences on his loss. I regarded him as an exceptional commander.

As detailed fully in Earth Systems Alliance Naval Operations Archive report B369-XO20497-E-R34489, during the twelve days preceding the execution of Operation Hedgehog Admiral David Anderson was cut off from strategic operations by an increase of Reaper activity throughout southern and eastern London. Due to enforced radio silence Admiral Anderson was obliged to take personal command of resistance cell UK1287.

Having linked up with cell UK831 under my command, Operation Hedgehog was delayed by a Reaper offensive in Docklands which restricted the movement of essential artillery reinforcements. Admiral Anderson's command was obliged to take refuge in the sub-basement of the nightclub The Mottled Oyster. During this time Admiral Anderson organised a group activity to maintain mental health and alertness in the resistance troops, whose performance had progressively declined due to the adverse conditions of preceding weeks.

I have attached the audio recording I made of this group activity. It preserves a record of his otherwise undocumented talent as a pianist, as well as the voices of a number of other resistance fighters who did not live to see the liberation of Earth.

Admiral Anderson was in my experience a taciturn man who had little interest in his legacy outside his military records. I believe he would never have publicly displayed his musical achievements outside the relatively unusual circumstances experienced in London.

For this reason I have also submitted this recording to the Earth Systems Alliance Historical Commission in Vancouver for inclusion in the Wartime Culture archive. I am confident that once you have listened to it, you will write to the Commission in support of my bid.

Regards,

Coats